


Your Hand In Mine

by TravelingSong



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 02:31:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7995421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TravelingSong/pseuds/TravelingSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This is what he wanted to share with her, a private moment, and when he whispers to her in the dark, his lips so close to her ear, it's intimate and magical and thrilling, and when he explains <i>why</i>, when his tone gets wistful, she intertwines their fingers without hesitation."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Hand In Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Something hopeful, something sweet. Thank you for reading!

"Would you like to have dinner with me?"

That's how it starts. Just that simple.

She hadn't made any plans, as is often the case these days, had merely been looking forward to another Friday night by herself. And then he had called, out of nowhere, and asked a question. And she, well, didn't have a good enough reason to decline.

She's standing in front of the mirror, unsure of the outfit she's picked, wonders if the dress might be too much. She doesn't know where he is planning on taking her, doesn't want to embarrass herself. And yet, she feels somewhat daring, finds the right shoes and a purse to go along with them. _This will do_ , she thinks. _This will do just fine._

When she opens the door to greet him half an hour later, his reaction is unmistakable-maybe he's just a bit speechless and maybe she's just a bit triumphant.

As he leads her towards the car, he finally regains his senses.

"You look stunning, Lizzie," he whispers. "Now, are you ready?"

* * *

The dress is perfectly appropriate in the end. The restaurant is sophisticated and exclusive, their table slightly isolated. She can hear a piano somewhere, a live performance, she guesses, but she doesn't inquire. It's lovely, though. Sets the mood quite wonderfully.

The wine he's ordered accompanies her food perfectly, of course, and their conversation flows easily without uncomfortable silences. There are moments, however, when she notices a change in him. The way he observes her when she speaks, as if he's fascinated by her every word, as if he can't take his eyes off of her, almost spellbound. The way he asks her questions, not about their work, but about personal memories. Stories from her childhood, her interests, her preferences. There's a fondness in his expression which she hadn't noticed before, an air of serenity she's seen every now and then, but never this genuine. Never this truthful.

She feels curious now.

"Red?"

"Yes?"

"What's the occasion?"

"Pardon?"

"What's the occasion for you calling me?"

"Does fine dining require-"

"Red."

No games tonight. She just wants an honest response.

"I wanted to spend time with you."

Suddenly her heart is beating much, much faster.

She blames it on the wine.

She knows that's not it.

She watches him fold his napkin into a neat triangle, before his focus is back on her. Her plate is empty and she wishes it wasn't, would like something to keep her distracted from his intense look. When he speaks, his voice is surprisingly soft.

"There's something I'd like to show you, Lizzie. If I haven't overstayed my welcome yet, that is."

"You haven't." She says it much quicker than anticipated, almost interrupts him. Doesn't quite know what she's doing.

There's a hint of surprise in his expression, easy to miss if she hadn't been watching him so closely now, and she'll file this away for later, too. A quick nod and a smile in response.

"Shall we go then?"

* * *

To her surprise, they don't get in the car but make their way down the street instead. It's only a few blocks, he tells her, and it really is a perfect night for a walk, the temperature just chilly enough for her coat to keep her comfortably warm.

 _Are you cold_ , he asks and she shakes her head, but he removes his scarf nonetheless and puts it loosely over her collar. _Just in case_ , he says, but she doesn't hear a thing, is too distracted by his fingertips on her skin and how they linger, linger, _linger_. She thinks there's a certain spot right below the nape of her neck that will never feel the same.

They stop in front of an old theater and the stage door opens after two knocks, _closed to the public_ , a sign reads, and she wonders what they're doing here. While she's scanning the art deco exterior of the building, he reaches for her hand and takes it, makes it look like a habit, like an instinct that can't be helped, something natural and real.

He leads her inside and up a narrow staircase and it's all happening rather quickly, the décor on the walls becoming more intricate with every step, and then everything opens up. It's quite literally breathtaking, the sight in front of her, the wide auditorium with its balconies and boxes, the chandelier hovering high above them, the embellished ceiling.

"Our seats are further down," he remarks and she can't help but brush her fingertips over the red velvet as she follows him. She could sit anywhere, really, the theater is completely empty except for the two of them, but she trusts him with his choice, trusts that he has probably repeatedly inquired about the best seats in the house.

His selection really is impeccable, she notes as she sits down, not the front row but the center of the orchestra section, a perfect view. There's anticipation rising within her, waits for him to give her a hint, and as the lights dim and the heavy curtain opens, she can hear him speak quietly.

"I'm so glad you're here, Lizzie."

Then darkness and silence.

There are muted footsteps making their way across the stage, then a single spotlight, then music filling the space around them. She recognizes it immediately, it's one of her favorites, _Swan Lake_ , has never gotten the opportunity to experience it in a setting quite like this, nothing comparable to this. This is what he wanted to share with her, a private moment, and when he whispers to her in the dark, his lips so close to her ear, it's intimate and magical and thrilling, and when he explains _why_ , when his tone gets wistful, she intertwines their fingers without hesitation. They're safe here in their own world, and she can't really find words to describe it. Maybe there are none.

With his pulse palpitating against her thumb, with all of this between them, she turns towards him and regards his profile, thinks that it was all a matter of time maybe, perhaps even predictable, their connection so obvious and their pull so strong.

"Watch the performance, Lizzie," he teases without looking at her. "It's really quite extraordinary."

* * *

When they walk the few stairs to her house hours later, she is at a loss. He seems too tentative, too reserved suddenly, and she hopes she didn't do anything wrong. Maybe he feels sentimental like she does, upset that their evening together has come to an end. There's so much she wants to say to him, all the words resting silently on the tip of her tongue.

"Thank you for tonight, Lizzie," she hears, and it's sweet and incomplete.

She thinks this can't possibly be it, that she can't just let him go, that there has to be _more_ , that she's so tired of waiting.

"Red?"

She stops him right before he turns.

"Would you like a nightcap?"

* * *

Later she'll wonder if she memorized all the right details. The sound of his step over her threshold, the gentle thud of her glass being put on the table, her name, over and over, _Lizzie_ , first as a question, then as a sigh, her fingernails scraping against his vest and _what took you so long, Red_ , as he leaned in to kiss her, his soft chuckle as he closed the distance, relieved and happy and _had I known a private ballet performance was all it takes_ , his unsteady breathing when she had pulled away and _open your eyes_. The bedroom door swinging shut and his face twitching almost imperceptibly when she had unbuttoned his shirt, the faint dip of the mattress, his wandering gaze so full of wonder and lust and longing, the air between them slowly fading and his weight settling and his hands tracing every outline. The slight flutter of his eyelashes and his gentle movements, all focus on her, something like perfection, something like love.

She'll wonder about the _what now_ and the _will it happen again,_ if this is the end of something good or the beginning of something better.

She'll wonder if he wants to stay for breakfast, if she has anything besides cereal and oatmeal in her cabinets, if he drinks his coffee black or if he prefers tea.

She'll wonder what his morning routine looks like, if she'll get to watch him get dressed.

She'll wonder where they put all their clothes last night anyway.

And then he'll wake, all drowsy gaze and tender smile, a throaty _good morning_ and his lips in her hair.

And she'll wonder why they didn't do this much, _much_ sooner.


End file.
